


god damn right, you should be scared of me

by lady_gt



Category: Doctor Faustus - Christopher Marlowe
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Overstimulation, Possessive Behavior, mephistopheles is a dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:34:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24923182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_gt/pseuds/lady_gt
Relationships: John Faustus/Mephistopheles
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	god damn right, you should be scared of me

The tower clock chimes from somewhere beyond in the city, indicating that it's midnight. A distraught Faustus curls up beneath the thin sheets, lost to sleep. It took him far too long to drift off - thoughts of Gretchen occupied his mind, and didn't escape him when he fell asleep. He sees her in his dreams: Trailing behind him in the empty streets of a city, staring at him with bulging eyes crusty with dry tears. She was beautiful once, as flawless as a porcelain doll, yet in his dreams Gretchen face is caked in dried blood, her once lustrous blonde hair tangled and matted and stiff with dirt. Yet though the nightmares plague Faustus and fear grips his heart, he does not wake up or struggle. He is distressed in sleep, yet nothing of his demeanor would convince anyone of it. His eyes are closed and he sleeps on his side, tossing and turning every so often. There are no pleading sobs in sleep, no begging to awaken.

Mephistopheles knows otherwise.

He watches his human at his bedside. He can read the thoughts that occupy Faustus' mind, weighing heavy in his brain. Poor, foolish human, he thinks, foolish enough to trust me and foolish enough to think that you could have it all. You are smart for your kind, Dr. Faustus, but you're unfortunately not smart enough. Still, he feels pity for his human. Seeing Faustus so despaired even in sleep is pathetic. And, Mephistopheles muses as he strokes Faustus' hair, he _does_ love toying with Faustus but sometimes toying with him isn't nearly enough. There are far greater things for this doctor to worry about and far greater luxuries that Mephistopheles can grant him. That much makes him lucky, but that much also makes him the most unfortunate man in the world by the standards of others. He stays at Faustus' side, lost in thought.

(Does he love him? He does not know. It is an aching feeling, Mephistopheles thinks, and surely that cannot be anything close to love. Love is a dizzying euphoria, at least that is what his Lord had told him before he'd been cast from Heaven, and one of the most beautiful feelings to exist next to joy. Faustus brings him a twisted sort of joy, but makes him long, too. He loves toying with him and he loves the bliss that puppeting Faustus on the strings brings him. Mephistopheles can say that much.)

But he also knows that Faustus looks most beautiful when he is unhappy. There are barely perceptible hints of his unhappiness as he rests, and that is what inexorably draws Mephistopheles to him. It is delightful to watch his face twitch up every now in then in sleep - Mephistopheles knows full well what he dreams of, but to him those are hardly nightmares - to watch Faustus shift from side to side and know that when he opens his eyes they will be downcast and dull. The problem is that Faustus actually _is_ unhappy - it's no fun toying with a human that fully regrets what he has done, wallowing in self-pity rather then indulging in his hedonism. He anticipates what is to come, and where's the fun in that? No, Mephistopheles decides, he will take it upon himself to make sure that Faustus forgets about the events of the days prior for at least a little while, and returns to recklessness and temptation once more. This is _his_ human to corrupt after all. His human to destroy, his human to take apart, his human to tamper and toy with till there is not a single shred of his former self left behind anymore.

Letting out a sigh of frustration, Mephistopheles bends down and trails his finger over Faustus' neck.

* * *

Faustus awakens to a slight pain in his neck.

Groggy, he blinks his eyes open. As his senses return to him with consciousness, he realizes that there are teeth at his neck: A pair of lips latched to the tender patch of skin, every now and then a fanged tooth digging down ever so slightly into his skin, perhaps hard enough to draw blood, a forked tongue flicking out over the skin captured in mouth. There's a hand clutching at his nightshirt and fisting the fabric. Faustus realizes what is happening, and struggles to sit up.

"Wha-"

Mephistopheles leans over him, gripping him by the nightshirt and sucking marks into his neck. Uncertain, unsteady arousal begins to settle over Faustus' nightmare-addled mind.

"Mephistopheles, what are you d-" He stuffs his fingers into his mouth at the feeling of a nip delivered a little too harshly to his neck. It's painful alright, but there was a brief spike of pleasure hidden in there too.

"Hush now, dear doctor," Mephistopheles hisses into his skin. "Forget your troubles, forget that girl. And if you cannot do that yourself, I will make you."

He begins to say Mephistopheles' name but that fades into a wavering little cry when he feels a hand drag lightly over his cock. The sheets have been removed, Mephistopheles' fingers circle at him through his nightshirt. _How foolish I am,_ Faustus thinks, _to contemplate that even for a second Mephistopheles wouldn't plan a thing for me now that Gretchen is gone._ Even with the light touching at his cock through his nightshirt Faustus clamps his legs together, nails hopelessly scraping at Mephistopheles' shoulders through his clothes.

"You're overestimating," he chokes out. He curses himself for not being able to hide the growing lust in his voice. "You think that I can be distracted from my despair with-"

"I _know_ so, Faustus. I know that you belong to me, and me alone. You are mine to have and mine to toy with - you knew full well from the beginning what my presence in your world would entail." He pulls away to let his breath fan out on a saliva-slick mark, cold on Faustus' skin. He drags a finger across the few marks on Faustus' neck, so bruise-like. Faustus winces at the tenderness, shivering at the feeling of Mephistopheles' claw-like finger tracing and tapping the marks he leaves. He is the Devil's, that much he knows, but the marks are only but a physical reminder that Faustus is not his own person and that this Devil owns him in body, soul and mind. And he knows that Mephistopheles can feel his weight trembling on the surface of the bed, listen to his heavy breathing as a betrayal of his body singing in pleasure.

"Look at you, so malleable in my hands. I don't even have to do much to get you worked up, Faustus. Look at you splayed on the bed. Oh, you can try and hide your moaning and keep your breathing steady all you want but I know your truth fully well." Faustus turns his head to the side and inadvertently gives Mephistopheles better access so as to attack at his neck with desperate, hungry bites once more. He feasts not on flesh but on Faustus' despair and not-quite-hatred, keeping him pressed down on the bed by his shoulders and straddling him so that his cock _aches_ for attention. And then he kisses Faust, tilting his head so that he stares into Mephistopheles' dark foreboding eyes and presses his lips close, shutting his eyes and slipping his forked tongue past Faustus' lips. Faustus' arms go limp and his tongue goes slack in his mouth. He does not kiss back, but his actions (or lack thereof) beckon to Mephistopheles. 

A thumb presses down hard on one of his nipples through his nightshirt and the sensation makes Faustus half-shriek into Mephistopheles' mouth. He cannot fully let out any noise and contents himself to inhaling and exhaling heavily into Mephistopheles' ravenous mouth. His kissing is devoid of love and romance, any layers of feeling ripped away and replaced with naught but want. And, though Faustus is hesitant to admit it, a part of him welcomes it. He can feel too-hard nails scraping at his skin through the thin layer of nightshirt separating him from Mephistopheles, and then for two fingers to swipe over one of his nipples once more and squeeze roughly.

Mephistopheles pulls away, mouth hanging open as spittle coats his tongue. "Enjoying yourself, aren't you, Doctor?"

Faustus looks up at him weakly. He says nothing.

His eyes go wide when he feels the fabric of his shirt begin to tear. Mephistopheles rips it half open to reveal Faustus' pale chest exposed from beneath that pesky layer of fabric. Faustus stares up at him tensely, half in apprehension and half eager. He lets out an undignified whimper when Mephistopheles tugs at one of his nipples a little too harshly. Though he twists around beneath him that only makes the sharp, precise pain on part of his chest even worse. He isn't quite sure if he's resisting or giving in - a part of him wants Mephistopheles out of his room and out of his world, but a part of him wants for Mephistopheles to proceed and have his wicked way with him.

"You're quite sensitive, I see. I suspected as much. I had my opinions on it from the moment I met you," Mephistopheles twists one of Faustus's nipples as he speaks, "But never did I think you'd _exceed_ in it. I don't even have to do much and here you are, letting out whorish moans from someone so much as toying around with one of your nipples."

Determined to prove Mephistopheles wrong, Faustus bites down a cry as Mephistopheles continues torturing his chest. His cock is aching through his nightshirt now, pressing up between Mephistopheles' legs. _Oh no,_ Faustus thinks, _he knows. He knows and when he acknowledges it I won't know what to do._ His fears are heightened when Mephistopheles purposely moves just a little, the friction sending sparks shooting through Faustus' body. The damned Devil is proud of his handiwork, shifting and savoring the feeling of Faustus growing so hard so quickly beneath him and helpless to stop it.

"Please," he manages. "Please..."

"Just as I said. Look at how hard you're growing just from my touching you. I haven't even gotten around to fucking you, and look at you all helpless and filled with lust and longing. Poor doctor," comes the mocking croon of Mephistopheles, "to want for so much and to not have it immediately. It was as I said earlier this month: You and your kind are always wanting, never savoring, never stopping to think and appreciate what you have. But I can. I can appreciate you as you live and breathe."

Faustus squeezes his eyes shut when Mephistopheles pinches at his nipple once more. He moves as much as he can beneath Mephistopheles, struggling to press his cock against something, _anything,_ in a way that can give him even the briefest of relief. But Mephistopheles is stubborn, occasionally pressing a little too hard down on him every now and then, but his attention is mostly directed towards Faustus' nipples and mouth. He slips his fingers past Faustus' lips to feel his tongue press over him, running over his cuticles and knuckles and nails. Satisfied he pulls his free hand away, examining Faustus' saliva glistening on his skin in the dark. The stimulation is too, too much - too much, in fact, that Faustus feels himself nearly sob when Mephistopheles pulls himself off and kneels over him on the bed.

"Get up," he commands. Faustus obeys, the bed shifting and creaking beneath his prone form as he gets to his knees. Mephistopheles snakes a hand carelessly over his chest through the tattered collar of his nightshirt, and then his eyes drift to Faustus' legs trembling with his knees balanced on the plush mattress. He knows that his cock protrudes through his nightshirt, straining against the fabric. He hasn't come quite yet - he fears what Mephistopheles might do to him if he does. But all it takes is a brushing of fingers over his thigh to make Faustus' heart nearly leap out of his throat and his legs to clamp together ever so slightly.

"What have we here?" Mephistopheles thumbs at the head of Faustus' cock through his nightshirt. "Lust, so pure and primal."

Faustus trembles at the pad of a thumb on him. Then-

"Lift your nightshirt so I can get a good look at you."

Faustus lifts up his nightshirt and bites down when he feels Mephistopheles touch him again, wincing at the taste of fabric trapped between his teeth.

"It's funny, really. You're a doctor and scholar, revered for your knowledge. But you were never smart enough to learn that you were the one serving me, rather than I you."

Faustus whimpers noiselessly through the fabric he's stuffed into his mouth, feeling Mephistopheles forcefully stroking and touching him. He can feel pre-cum beginning to coat the spindly fingers that grip him, leans forward just a little into Mephistopheles' hand when he feels a nail lightly flick over a vein on his cock that presses out. This is part of the Devil's handiwork. He isn't quite sure what he wants anymore, but Mephistopheles knows that _he_ wants nothing more than to reduce the human he seduced with the promises of things he could never have - well, never _really_ have anyways - to a whorish, pleading mess so easily molded by his hands that do nothing but take and take and take.

And take he does. He takes away Faustus' pleasure by pulling his hand away and his nightshirt down once more. He takes away Faustus' last shred of pride by pulling him down by the hair so he's mere centimeters away from Mephistopheles' cock and can smell the scent of his skin.

"Such a shame that you hadn't thought to let those sweet lips of yours kiss my cock," Mephistopheles laments, "And it will make what is to come _so_ much easier, dear doctor."

Faustus lets Mephistopheles push his way into his mouth, jaw struggling to stay open. His wet tongue brushes over the head of Mephistopheles' cock and his eyes close - it's easier that way, when he doesn't have to focus on being reduced to helplessness and feeding on hot cock. He tries to take as much as he can, letting out peculiar noises. A part of him reveres in the humiliation because it is all he has left and a part of him tells him that this is not for him and that he should not be here. Mephistopheles laughs quietly at the feel of him gagging and straining around his cock, his mouth struggling to accommodate to the unfamiliarity. He yanks tight hold of Faustus by the hair, surely savoring his confused slurring through his sucking.

"So kind of you to take my cock so well. And good of you to not even _think_ of getting off while I have my way with you."

Faustus struggles to breathe.

"You've been so kind to me, Faustus. Is that only because you _think_ I am your devoted servant, your slave till you draw your last breath? Well, it isn't so. You serve me, I give you whatever your heart desires in exchange for my due end of the bargain. It's only fair that with the way things are tonight, that I seize what is rightfully mine."

Abruptly, he pulls out of Faustus' mouth. He knows how the lust burns in Mephistopheles looking upon him, tongue hanging half-open in his mouth and stained with pre-cum, sweat dampened face in the dark. His eyes look downward as much as he's flipped onto his stomach and left scrabbling to cling to something, anything as he gets onto his knees. The bite-marks left on his skin sting, fingernails snagging at the frayed fabric of the blanket. He's in awe and fear at Mephistopheles, turning the tables on him and _using_ him as both a way to give him solace and remind him who his soul truly belongs to.

"I know that your kind has to prepare yourselves for when these things happen, but I am not your kind. There's simply no need." Faustus lets out an undignified whimper at the feeling of Mephistopheles' cock pressing at his entrance. "But let it be known that you are mine to ruin. Mine to keep, mine to destroy and watch as you grow drunk on power you simply don't have. _I_ am the one in control."

Faustus screams noiselessly when Mephistopheles enters him. It does not hurt - something wet and slick coats Mephistopheles as he makes his way inside of Faustus - but feeling something lodged inside of him stretching him out makes his eyes pop open and his jaw unlock. He yelps at the feeling, gripping at clumps of lumpy cotton beneath the layers of mattress because he needs something to hold onto. Mephistopheles will give him nothing - he knows it is not what he deserves. Mephistopheles' grip on his hips is bruising, too-hard nails digging into his skin and causing brief pain to spike up. He uses his free hand to clutch at his ruined nightshirt when Mephistopheles forces his way back in again, nudging against his prostate and making Faustus shudder.

"Oh, don't play dumb with me, Doctor. Make noise - I know you want to. I know you're trying to keep quiet."

Faustus lets out a choked cry. Mephistopheles fucks him slowly, and speaks once more. "Beg me. Beg me and I will grant you relief and let you come."

"F-" Faustus can only manage a half-uttered curse with Mephistoheles' ministrations of him. "-Fuck me. Please. Need you - need to forget - I'm yours, I'm yours-"

There are tears streaming down his face. It's all too much for him: Mephistopheles _fucking_ him, feeling a hand yank him by the hair and press his face into the mattress, struggling to cling onto one constant while his world spins around him. Mephistopheles takes him up to the hilt, keeping him still enough as a reminder of who is the one in control but also allowing Faustus enough freedom to twist and thrash around on the bed, garbled moaning the only sound he's capable of letting loose from his mouth. Does it bring him pleasure? Does it bring him pain? Or perhaps it brings him a twisted combination of both? Faustus does not know. But he is here and helpless, completely at the Devil's mercy. Mephistopheles knows this, and indulges him in it when he says, "Does it bring you joy? Does it heal your body, reduced to something akin to a bitch in heat while I use you like a toy?"

Faustus does not know whether to nod or shake his head and instead gives Mephistopheles a mangled combination of both. And then it's over, Mephistopheles growling as he empties himself into Faustus and paints his insides white with seed. A hand roughly pushing at his backside makes Faustus come too, and he feels his seed stain the bedsheets and his stomach with ribbons of white. He's left lying there as a crumpled mess, Mephistopheles pulling out of him and observing his weakened body: He's drenched in sweat, hair matted against his forehead and fingers feebly curling around the mattress trying to grip something, anything. He thinks - or does he, for he can't perceive a thing - that this is what he deserves.

"You're lucky you live here. Otherwise people could've heard you," Mephistopheles says. "I'm only doing what I must, making you forget your pain."

The sound of Faustus gasping for air and letting out distorted, retching sobs follows Mephistopheles out of the room.


End file.
